


Promenade

by jeanralphio



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Western, Dancing, Gen, M/M, flirty friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-10
Updated: 2012-10-10
Packaged: 2017-11-16 00:14:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeanralphio/pseuds/jeanralphio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick is the con artist leader of a bandit gang which ventures into a town for a heist where Tom, the sheriff, mistakes him for Scott Fitzgerald, his wife Daisy's cousin. Gatsby, the local hotel owner and head of an underground moonshine business, helps keep Nick's secret in exchange for an in to both his particular crime ring and Daisy Buchanan's heart. But Nick and Gatsby grow ever closer in the process.</p><p>The town holds an anniversary festival every year, and Nick quickly realizes parties aren't his thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promenade

The town of Green River took its anniversary very seriously. Almost every store and business was closed early for the week-long celebration, bringing their goods instead to the evening's festivities and advertising to the foolish and frivolous-minded. Only the saloon stayed open day-long, serving as a haven for the immensely hungover marooned by their families in the turbulence of the night before. I, myself, had taken to spending my days there out of a lack of anything better to do. We were stuck waiting for the others to arrive with the merchandise we would be using for "trade" while in town, and in the meantime, had no choice but to live out our fake lives until they arrived.

Miss Baker, the bartender girl, had grown accustomed and even fond of my constant presence at her counter. I never ordered more than one drink a day, preferring to watch the rest of the men lower their inhibitions and stoop to ridiculous actions than participate in them myself. Miss Baker found this amusing.

"You goin' to the festival tonight?" She asked cheerfully, pouring another drink for the man beside me. "I haven't seen you there all week."

"I was there," I assured. I had ventured out of the hotel on the first night of the festival only to turn back very quickly when I realized that the celebration was largely based on dancing and gorging oneself of grilled food, neither of which I excelled at. "You probably just missed me."

"Oh, but you gotta go tonight," she objected. She poured another whiskey into my emptying glass and I raised my eyebrows at her.

"I'm not really a fan of the noise."

"That's a load of bull. Everyone loves the music. It's an absolute dream to dance to."

I smiled. "Dance a lot, do you?"

"Only when people are there to watch." Miss Baker put down her flask and gazed at me, chin propped up on her elbows. "I'd love to show you."

"I'd love to see."  
  
"Eight o'clock, then." She straightened up, grinning, and whirled away to serve some other shouting drunkard.

I blinked. I had spoken without thinking and quite possibly agreed to a date that evening with the saloon girl.

-

The anniversary of the town didn't strike me as a formal affair, so I more or less walked out of the hotel wearing what I had worn all day. Dusk had long passed, the inky sky bedazzled with the stars of the desert and muted only by the hundreds of lanterns from the town below. Laughter, singing, and elated shouts filled the air, thickening it with the pure presence of people crowded together in merriment. Large parties were never my strong suit. I found them too intimate to truly be able to enjoy myself.

Miss Baker stood waiting for me in front of the saloon, decorated in a dark purple dress that flounced so much around her feet I worried that they would be consumed by it. She smiled at me and offered up her arm, which I took awkwardly as we headed toward the party.

The music was unfamiliar to me; a typical Western ditty accented by the rapid twang of a banjo and the screech of a violin. Men, ladies, and children danced in a large group in the center of the square, twirling around one another and stomping their shoes on the wooden stage with a frenzied thrill.

Miss Baker pulled on my arm. "Come on, Scott!"

I pulled back, shaking my head quickly. "No, no, you go ahead. Dancing isn't really me."

"What do you mean it's not _you?_ Everybody dances!"

"I came to watch you, remember?" I joked. She rolled her eyes at me, eyelashes fluttering.

"Suit yourself." She detached herself from me and spun into the crowd, swiftly stepping in time to the music. The band encouraged the spectators to clap along.

I watched for a couple minutes, mildly intrigued by the fast-paced jig, before realizing that Miss Baker had long abandoned me for the dance and was now making eyes at a handsome dark skinned-man who was particularly nimble on his feet. Grateful for an out, I slipped away, considering a second day's drink for once.

Wandering through the crowd for a cart selling whiskey, I took in the smells and sights of the massive party. The food smelled smoky and full of spices, the burnt sugar-smell of sweets weaving through that of the grilled meat and bringing a healthy profit to the food stands. A gaggle of men sat around the edge of the well, daring one another to jump in in their drunken stupor. As I walked away, I felt a hand of my shoulder. I turned.

"Hello, old sport," Gatsby greeted me, smiling. It was idiotic how much I had missed that smile. "I can't say I expected to see you here."

"Neither did I," I admitted. "I was invited, but seem to have lost my companion."

"Would you walk with me, then? As much as I love parties, I can't say I'd prefer them over spending time with a good friend."

I snorted. We were hardly friends so much as business partners. But I followed the hotel owner down the street and away from the crowd anyway.

We walked into the alleyways between the buildings surrounding the square, chatting idly. The sounds of the celebration continued to filter out from the town as we wandered, dirt trailing in our wake and likely soiling Gatsby's perfect shoes. We stopped between the hotel and the blacksmith's, the festivities still loud and visible, but now remote.

I closed my eyes and breathed, thankful for the newly unoccupied space. I heard Gatsby chuckle beside me.

"Not a fan of these shindigs, old sport?"

"Not so much," I shrugged. "I like music, food, and people. Just not in excess and at the same time."

Said music in the distance was slowing down now, falling into a familiar lilt of piano and fiddle. A man's voice rose from the darkness, singing along.

_From this valley they say you are going  
We will miss your bright eyes and sweet smile…_

"I know this song!" I blurted. Gatsby looked amused.

"Oh, yes?"

"My… parents used to sing it to me." That may have been a lie. The song had always been a part of my memory, but I had no exactly recollection as to when I first heard it. For all I knew, one of the bandits had a particularly sweet voice.

"I quite like it, too," Gatsby hummed along to the song and I laughed. His voice was terrible.

_Come and sit by my side, if you love me  
Do not hasten to bit me adieu…_

"Nick," he said.

I started. I forgot he knew my real name. 

He was holding a hand out to me, smiling slightly, gaze refusing to leave mine. I stared, aware of what he was offering, but unbelieving until he asked quietly, "May I?"

Everything logical pointed towards no, and every reasonable action would have told me to curtly decline his invitation and retire to my room for the night. Miss Baker, I turned down early, retreating into the throng of people to save myself the humiliation of the dance. But something fierce awoke within me whenever Gatsby was concerned, and his eyes, in turn, spoke more than a simple invitation ever would.

I stepped over to him, taking his hand. He pulled me closer, chest nearly flush with mine, his other hand pressed into the small of my back. I have never much minded whatever social constructs would prevent this sort of thing, and do not, in all honesty, see the purpose of opposing it. But nonetheless, I was glad that we were a ways from the festival.

His feet befall to move slowly, stepping back and forth as I did my best to follow.

_I've been thinking a long time, my darling_  
 _Of the sweet words you never would say_  
 _Now, alas, must my fond hopes all vanish_  
 _For they say you are going away_

I was by no means a graceful dancer, but Gatsby led, sidestepping slowly and holding me close so that I wouldn't stray far. The song seemed to guide his movements, gliding back and forth on the dusty ground. Our surroundings were fading, blurring until nothing remained but his steady breath and the warm hand on my back. I lowered my head onto his shoulder, closing my eyes and laying an arm across his own back. 

Gatsby and I had met barely a week before, and yet here he was, holding me in the yellow lamplight and letting me rest against him. I wondered briefly why I was the one he had chosen to seek out that night, but a hand on the back of my head and a press of lips against my hair halted such thoughts.

_Just remember the Red River Valley,  
And the one who has loved you so true._

The song ended, and Gatsby's feet slowed to a halt. His fingers brushed the back of my neck and I shuddered, lifting my head from his shoulder and moving to look him in the face.

His expression was brazen and his eyes hard, mine doubtlessly unreadable. He blinked slowly at me before raising a hand to touch my face, our arms still around each other, and stroked at my cheek with his thumb. His mouth was slightly open, like he was exhaling. He came closer.

I tore myself away from him, peeling out of his arms, and backed up a good five feet. He looked at me, worried, and I looked back, lump in my throat, heart pounding, and words refusing to form themselves in my mind. Turning quickly, I ran out behind the hotel, throwing open the back door and shutting it behind me, heart in my mouth, and mind still standing with Gatsby under the lamplight.

**Author's Note:**

> The song used is "Red River Valley," a pretty popular cowboy love song that I learned from reading the Magic Tree House books as a kid. go me


End file.
